turned to me. ‘Master Chapman, let us get this over and done with. If you’ll follow me, we’ll go to the winter parlour, which is always empty at this time of year. Although, goodness knows why. Today is more like winter than spring. Thank the saints the Duchess had a fine day yesterday.’ She glanced at Bertram. ‘Is he coming, too?’
Bertram drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. ‘I am the representative of my master, the Duke of Gloucester,’ he announced importantly. ‘I am here to assist Master Chapman with his enquiries.’
I am a tolerant man as a rule, as all who know me will testify (well, most of them, anyway), but I was beginning to harbour unkind thoughts about young Master Serifaber. Visions of racks and thumbscrews and vats of boiling oil hovered tantalizingly at the back of my mind.
‘Come with me, then.’ Judith swept past us, out of the door, and we, perforce, had to follow.
We were led up a flight of stairs, along a narrow corridor, up another, shorter staircase and into a room not more than about seven feet square, again facing south on to the Thames to catch whatever there was of the westering afternoon sun. This morning, however, it was cold and dismal and no welcoming fire burned on the hearth.
‘Wait,’ Judith St Clair ordered peremptorily. ‘I’ll send for candles.’
She disappeared. I ignored Bertram and took stock of the room.
There were no expensive rugs as in the hall, but, like the parlour below, the floor was covered with fresh rushes mixed with scented herbs and dried flowers. (Some underling had been up and hard at work since the crack of dawn.) A broad window seat was strewn with cushions, two carved armchairs were drawn up, one on either side of the empty hearth, a harp and its stool stood in one corner, an oak chest, banded with iron, offered an extra, if uncomfortable, seat, while a couple of joint stools completed the furnishings.
Bertram had his own method of inspection. Not content with letting his eyes do the work, he wandered around the room, touching everything: prodding cushions, running his fingers across the harp strings, kicking up the rushes.
After a while, I could stand it no longer. ‘For goodness’ sake, lad, you’re like a flea on a griddle. Stand still! You’re making me nervous.’
Judith St Clair returned with a servant, a man in his mid-twenties, a surly expression marring features that might, in other circumstances, have been quite pleasant. He was carrying a flint and tinder-box and some candles which he was directed to light and set in holders about the room. Then he was ordered to kindle the pile of sticks and logs on the hearth, a feat he accomplished with a great deal of difficulty, for the room was damp. Finally, when this was done, he stumped off, grumbling under his breath. Judith St Clair heaved a sigh.
‘You must forgive William,’ she said. ‘He’s been in my employ since he was eight years old. His father was servant to my first husband, Edmund Broderer, and he regards himself as privileged. But he’s very loyal.’ She paused, plainly annoyed with herself for explaining and apologizing for something that was none of our business. We were uninvited and of lowly status, even if we did have the backing of a royal duke. She sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’ She didn’t ask us to sit.
I wasn’t standing for that (literally). I drew forward one of the joint stools and motioned to Bertram to do the same with the other. Only when he was settled did I lean forward, elbows on knees, and request our reluctant hostess to tell us about her reunion with Fulk Quantrell.
‘What can I say?’ She was angry at what she considered my display of bad manners, but was powerless to dismiss me without indirectly offending the Dowager Duchess, who had given her blessing to our enquiries. ‘He was my nephew, my sister Veronica’s son. Her only child. My only living kinsman. Furthermore, he
Bertram drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. ‘I am the representative of my master, the Duke of Gloucester,’ he announced importantly. ‘I am here to assist Master Chapman with his enquiries.’
I am a tolerant man as a rule, as all who know me will testify (well, most of them, anyway), but I was beginning to harbour unkind thoughts about young Master Serifaber. Visions of racks and thumbscrews and vats of boiling oil hovered tantalizingly at the back of my mind.
‘Come with me, then.’ Judith swept past us, out of the door, and we, perforce, had to follow.
We were led up a flight of stairs, along a narrow corridor, up another, shorter staircase and into a room not more than about seven feet square, again facing south on to the Thames to catch whatever there was of the westering afternoon sun. This morning, however, it was cold and dismal and no welcoming fire burned on the hearth.
‘Wait,’ Judith St Clair ordered peremptorily. ‘I’ll send for candles.’
She disappeared. I ignored Bertram and took stock of the room.
There were no expensive rugs as in the hall, but, like the parlour below, the floor was covered with fresh rushes mixed with scented herbs and dried flowers. (Some underling had been up and hard at work since the crack of dawn.) A broad window seat was strewn with cushions, two carved armchairs were drawn up, one on either side of the empty hearth, a harp and its stool stood in one corner, an oak chest, banded with iron, offered an extra, if uncomfortable, seat, while a couple of joint stools completed the furnishings.
Bertram had his own method of inspection. Not content with letting his eyes do the work, he wandered around the room, touching everything: prodding cushions, running his fingers across the harp strings, kicking up the rushes.
After a while, I could stand it no longer. ‘For goodness’ sake, lad, you’re like a flea on a griddle. Stand still! You’re making me nervous.’
Judith St Clair returned with a servant, a man in his mid-twenties, a surly expression marring features that might, in other circumstances, have been quite pleasant. He was carrying a flint and tinder-box and some candles which he was directed to light and set in holders about the room. Then he was ordered to kindle the pile of sticks and logs on the hearth, a feat he accomplished with a great deal of difficulty, for the room was damp. Finally, when this was done, he stumped off, grumbling under his breath. Judith St Clair heaved a sigh.
‘You must forgive William,’ she said. ‘He’s been in my employ since he was eight years old. His father was servant to my first husband, Edmund Broderer, and he regards himself as privileged. But he’s very loyal.’ She paused, plainly annoyed with herself for explaining and apologizing for something that was none of our business. We were uninvited and of lowly status, even if we did have the backing of a royal duke. She sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’ She didn’t ask us to sit.
I wasn’t standing for that (literally). I drew forward one of the joint stools and motioned to Bertram to do the same with the other. Only when he was settled did I lean forward, elbows on knees, and request our reluctant hostess to tell us about her reunion with Fulk Quantrell.
‘What can I say?’ She was angry at what she considered my display of bad manners, but was powerless to dismiss me without indirectly offending the Dowager Duchess, who had given her blessing to our enquiries. ‘He was my nephew, my sister Veronica’s son. Her only child. My only living kinsman. Furthermore, he
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